


Three Reasons

by hatebeat



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Gen, Snakes N' Barrels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatebeat/pseuds/hatebeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You already know where they are NOW now, but where were they then?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Reasons

_Los Angeles, California - 1976._

One day, Tony just stopped going to school.

Sure, his old man kicked up a stink about it, but that wasn't going to change his mind. And it wasn't that he got bad grades or anything. He didn't do his homework a lot, but he wasn't stupid. He did well when he actually took the tests. He didn't even mind learning, at least not that much. Sometimes things in the world were actually interesting, like biology and history and the kind of stuff that hooked you in and made you want to know more. Algebra, hey, he wasn't as much of a fan of that, but sometimes you have to do things you don't want to. That was just life.

Nah, it wasn't classes that dropped school down to a one or two on a ten-point scale of Tony's list of priorities, it was the _people_ there. 

Tony hated them. So vapid and stupid and self-absorbed- not like Tony wasn't particularly _not_ any of those things, but he felt like he was a little different, like he was on another level. He partied with different crowds, had interests of a higher quality.

Tony had friends over at LACC who he could party with even on the week nights; they always had better quality booze than whatever a bunch of high school kids could scrape together, and those guys knew a thing or two about the real world. They opened his eyes to the music that was going on all around him. It was impossible to ignore and he'd never really been ignorant to it- his mom played guitar herself, a rocker at her core, no matter how much his dad tried to be responsible and stamp that hippie bullshit out of her. But these guys knew a lot more, knew where the best bars were, what local bands had what it took, they followed all that crap, and Tony just found that kind of stuff a lot more interesting than whatever brainwash was going on when he was in lockdown inside a set of dingy beige walls for seven hours of his day.

But the problem went further than just knowing he was better than his high school peers- it was that they knew it, too. Or, well, maybe it was the opposite. He'd been teased a lot since forever, didn't really wear on him that much, just brushed it off and got back up. He knew he was a little overweight, knew he wasn't really that attractive to girls, and he tried not to let it bother him, but when the bullying started getting physical, it definitely started to piss him off. Or at least scare him. Just a little. That was in freshman year of high school, and it had been going on the whole time. Tony ate his lunch in the nurse's office on days he still bothered going to school at all. He had to be careful about which ways he went home, especially now that they'd trashed his bike.

It was just a hassle and he wasn't feeling it. He had better things to do with his time than go to school. There were bright colours and neon lights calling his name, and he was way more interested in that world than the bland one that he trudged through every day at Belmont Senior High.

\---  
 _Cleveland, Ohio - 1977._

He sat near the foot of the bed watching her carefully pack away each pair of shoes into a box. Sammy should help, he knew he should, but he was still residually stubborn. He'd put his foot down on the matter weeks ago.

Usually his mother took his opinions into consideration, but it had been a little different since Greg came into the picture. A lot different. A lot more different than Sammy was comfortable with.

"I don't want to move," he said, probably for the millionth time just today. 

"Will you please stop your whining?" his mother snapped at him. Until now, she'd been patient with him, but that patience had finally worn thin. "We're going, Sammy."

She turned her back on him, turning back to her closet, and Sammy curled his hands into fists atop his crossed legs. He tried to stay quiet- his mother never got annoyed with him- never! But now she was. It was Greg's fault. Sammy knew it was. 

"I don't understand, Mom. There's nothing _there_ for us, you've never even _been_ to Carmichael... How do you even know if we'll like it there?"

"Sammy, it'll be _better_ there," she told him firmly. "Greg's company is there- we'll be better off. I won't have to work as much- I'll have more time to spend with _you_. California means a whole new life for us."

She really sounded like she believed that, but Sammy knew it wasn't true. It was a lie! She never spent time with him anymore, never, not now that she and Greg were getting married. 

"I don't want a new life," Sammy sulked. "I like it _here_."

She paused, and he could practically hear her pressing her lips together even though she wasn't facing him. But then she turned and came over to the bed, sat down right next to him, put her arm around his shoulder.

"Greg can make things better for us," she promised quietly, but Sammy had had enough of that.

"I can make things better for us!" he argued. "I'll be able to... to get a job soon, to help out more. We can take care of ourselves, Mom- we don't need _him_!"

His mother sighed and caressed his shoulder. "You've always been such a strong kid, Sammy. I know we could keep making it on our own. But I love him, Sammy. We're going to be happier," she repeated, as if she were trying to convince herself as well.

"You don't even know him!" Sammy burst. "I've known you for fourteen years and he's only known you a couple months!"

"Don't I deserve to be happy for once?" his mother asked sharply, and he heard her voice break a little bit, and he couldn't deal with that. He'd dealt with his mother's tears for so many reasons over the years, but he couldn't stand to be the cause of them. He was supposed to take care of her. It was just them, the two of them against the world, no matter how hard things got. 

It used to be, anyway. 

\---  
 _Fayetteville, Arkansas - 1969._

He dropped his bookbag on the floor just next to his bed as soon as he got home. It lay ignored while he switched on his record player and _Strange Days_ started to play. He wasn't supposed to listen to this stuff anymore since Jim Morrison's arrest- his father said boy his age needed better role models. He didn't care. He couldn't get enough!

Satisfied once his music was playing, he scooted onto his bed and grabbed his bag, but he didn't pull out his homework. That could wait until later. For now, he had something better. The new issue of _Rolling Stone_ was out, the one with Brian Jones as the cover story, and he was going to read every page of it before his mother got home from her shopping.

But after he read the Brian Jones article from top to bottom, he got caught up in reading the report of this year's Newport Jazz Festival. Bullets should have realised that the record had nearly finished, but he was still startled by the knock that suddenly rattled his door.

Eyes wide, Bullets shoved the magazine into his pillow case on instinct, just in time for the door to swing open.

"Alexander? Have you finished practicing already?" his mother asked, looking him over critically. His violin sat untouched in the corner of the room.

"I was just finishing my homework," he lied, praying she wouldn't notice the way his school bag lay ignored on the floor. 

"What are you listening to?" she asked, distracted and wrinkling her nose. But then his response seemed to finally make its way to her ears. "Homework could have waited until after dinner, sweetie; you know you have to go to your lesson today," she said, a reprimand- albeit gentle.

He bit the inside of his lip and didn't say anything. But he would, someday. He would tell her exactly what he thought of playing the stupid, boring violin and how much he hated going to see his ugly, mean violin teacher. 

Not today. Today he still had a magazine waiting under his pillow that he could read it by flashlight tonight, if nothing else. That would buy him a few more days.


End file.
